


Memento Mori

by fannishliss



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, Protective Steve, Shaving, Showers, washing is an especially tender comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky would really love to shave and cut his hair.  He'd really love a lot of things.  He's getting there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cindyfxx has translated this into Chinese -- thanks!!  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/2563688/chapters/5701031
> 
> Her friend Juefeifeifei Feather also drew this lovely picture for the story!!!   
> http://juefeifeifei.tumblr.com/post/101732634860/inspired-by-stucky-fic-memento-mori

You're staring into the bathroom mirror and your old pearl-handled straight razor is in your right hand. You're naked and the room is hot and filling with steam from the shower, but you haven't gotten in yet, you're standing frozen in front of the mirror and tears are pouring down your cheeks.  
  
 _So fucking useless._    
  
You want to lift the blade, but you can't.  All you can see is the blood.  So the hot water pounds down the drain.    
  
"Bucky," Steve says, opening the door, "here's your robe, it was still in the dryer," and his words die in his mouth as he sees you with the blade.  He freezes and the two of you are still lives -- _memento mori, chiaroscuro_ , studies in light and darkness.    
  
Steve steps into the room, closing the door. He makes no sudden movements but his whole body is tense and ready to fight.  Sure, you're naked, but there's a four inch blade in your hand, and you've just honed and stropped it enough to give _razor sharp_ its meaning.  Steve's wearing sweatpants and a t shirt, just back from his morning run.  You got up just after he did and tried.  You went into the bathroom and got the razor and.  
  
Steve doesn't say anything.  He's waiting, watching, careful, but he's not going to push.    
  
"Steve...." you say, and it's shameful, a long and drawn out whine.    
  
"Yeah?" he answers.    
  
"I -- I wanna --  " you say, and _what is the fucking deal_.  Why can you fly a jet, fight like a demon, calculate trajectories, but you can't complete a sentence if it's about something you might want.  
  
"You wanna put down the razor?" Steve asked, ever so gently.  
  
 _"No!"_ you bellow, deafening in the tiny, steamy room.    
  
Steve just nods, a slight and accepting nod with his chin, leaning against the door, like this is everyday.  It is though, another shameful truth.    
  
He repeats what you said; your therapist said this might help you. "Bucky, you want...."  
  
"Shave," you gasp, almost choking on the word. The razor quivers in your grasp.    
  
Steve frowns.  He gave you an electric razor that was in crumpled bits within an hour.  He gave you a package of disposables which seem like some kind of abomination.    
  
"You," you try, and amazingly, your right hand lowers, to lay the straight razor on the counter, next to the old mug.    
  
Steve gets it, steps closer. "You want me to help you shave?  with our old razor?"  
  
"And," you try, and your right hand lifts to pull at your hair.  The left arm whirs like a villain, like a horror movie scientist with a cunning and evil scheme.    
  
"hm," Steve demurs.  "One thing at a time."  His arms are still full of robe and fluffy towels.  He puts the towels on the counter and hangs your robe next to his on the door.    
  
Steve picks up the mug.  "I love the smell, you know? _Colgate shaving soap_.  It's exactly the same."  
  
You close your eyes as he dots the warm foam softly off the boar bristle brush.  Your beard isn't long, but you hate the disposable razors.  They pull. They might work for Steve, his soft, fine beard, but not for you.  And the electric one had hurt your ears with some high pitched overtone, and it gave you nightmares for a week even though you only ran it for a minute.    
  
Now Steve is lathering you up.  It's true, the smell is so comforting -- it smells like the old days, it smells like Steve. He's got nothing against the modern world, not really, but he hangs on to the things he's always loved.    
  
"Bucky, I want you to open your eyes." Steve practices giving you clear instructions, and you practice choosing how to respond.  You open your eyes, and Steve is right there.    
  
"Put your hands against my shoulders.  Push me away if you feel threatened."

"It's a straight razor, Steve," you say, and he grins at your tone, and you try to grin back.  The tear tracks sting at the corners of your eyes.

You put your hands up and rest them on his shoulders -- your real hand and the villain.  Your real hand registers the warmth of Steve, his solidity and reality. The villain whirs, knowing you are holding back from shoving.    
  
"Keep looking in my eyes.  If you need to pause, say yellow, or red to stop."  
  
"Green," you say and try not to smirk as a load of tension falls away from Steve's face.    
  
He lifts the straight razor and the villain pulses, flakes rising along the outer forearm.    
  
"Color?" Steve asks.    
  
"Green," you insist.  The arm could break Steve's clavicle like a matchstick.    
  
Steve glides the razor down your left cheek like a dream.  You sigh, blinking slowly.  He does the left cheek, then the chin.    
  
"Green," you whisper.  You are bathing in the steamy warmth of the room, the heft of Steve's strong shoulders under your hands, his quads like stone against your naked thighs.  There is no modesty in either of you.  In flashes of the past you've seen him scrawny, feverish, wracked with coughing, covered in mud and blood and you've wiped him down a thousand times.  
  
Now Steve holds you still with the power of blue, his long dark lashes masking the dilated pupils, his lips twitching into a moue as he thinks about getting your upper lip.  You echo the mouth and the razor scrapes it clean, like a dream.    
  
"A second go -- green?" Steve asks.    
  
"Green," you say.  He lathers you up again and redoes the shave going up instead of down.  It feels so clean.    
  
"Sideways?" Steve says.    
  
"Yes," you say, a little victory -- your assent was one thing Hydra never asked of you.    
  
Steve pulls the razor smoothly across your face in the third direction -- silencing the angry little bristles from their raspy refusals.    
  
"May I join you in the shower?" Steve asks.    
  
It's a big shower, plenty of room for two large men, there's even a seat along one wall.  You nod, and Steve gets naked.    
  
He's hard, which you already knew, and you look.  You want.  Steve won't, he won't take, but this is _the biggest want_ and the biggest _yes_ and Hydra didn't let you make those choices.    
  
Still. Steve looks at you, and you are naked, and he is hard, and his eyes are dark, and he steps through the glass into the hot room of the shower, and you are able to follow.    
  
Steve buys plain Ivory soap, but there are whole stores now that sell nothing but different smells of soap.  He lathers himself and rubs under his arms and between his legs and blushes a little as you watch him wash his own butt.  He steps under the spray and gets his hair wet and still you watch as he lathers up his hair, washes it vigorously, and rinses it off.    
  
Steve watches you watch him.  You watch him all the time.  He bears it courageously, with honor, and he preens and is shy by turns.  Naked, he poses a little even while trying to be modest.  You want. He wants.    
  
The villain fist slams into the wall, cracking a tile. Steve startles, eyes wide.   Property damage is the metal arm's favorite pastime.  
  
"Sorry," you say.    
  
"Bucky, you want..." Steve tries, his voice a little creaky from the surprise.    
  
"My hair," you rasp.  "Wash it... please?"     
  
Steve smiles brightly, like your childish request is a fucking dissertation.  
  
There's a whole rainbow of shampoos along the back of the shower seat.  Steve buys you a new one every week.  He watches your face as he tests the scents for you under your nostrils, watches the twitch of your brows or the slight pull of your dislike or the flutter of your eyelashes at apple and strawberry.    
  
Half of paradise, you think, must be hot showers.  You stand under the stream, letting the heat flow down in rivulets, and Steve's fingers massage your scalp and everything feels so good.    
  
Nothing hurts.    
  
 _Nothing fucking hurts._  
  
Now you're crying again.    
  
Steve can see your shoulders shaking, but he's used to it.  His gentle strokes don't falter until your shuddering subsides.    
  
"Rinse," he orders softly, and you allow it, tipping your head back to let the suds fall away.  Steve combs your long hair back behind your ears. It hangs down the back of your neck, heavy and long.  They would grab you by the hair, you remember.    
  
"I kind of like it," Steve whispers in your ear.  
  
 _I like it_ , Pierce would say. You shudder.  You want to cut it, you want, you're not allowed to want...  
  
"Red," you gasp,  and

  
  
Steve backs away,  holds up a wash cloth.    
  
"You want?" he says. His eyes are soft.  He hurts with you. He just wants to make you clean.    
  
You shake out a nod, and Steve strokes you all over with the hot, soapy terrycloth, cleaning the places you can't reach and those you can. 

  
"Sit," he orders -- pointing, so you sit, and he washes your feet with the cloth, getting in between the toes.  
  
You remember the old washtub and boiling hot water for bath nights.  You remember Steve's grin when he washed your back.  You remember his fingers in your hair, his voice saying,  
  
 _thank god Buck you were really starting to stink_  
  
and you saying  
  
 _I think you missed a spot_  
  
as you spread your legs  
  
"I think you missed a spot," you say, and you spread your legs.  
  
Steve's jaw drops and he stares at you, breathing through his mouth the way he always used to.    
  
"Yeah?" he says, knees ready to buckle.  
  
"Yes," you say, a resounding victory.    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wasn't allowed to want. But Steve gives him what he wants anyway. Bucky says yes. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like a soundtrack, it would be "Marble Halls" by Enya.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1J7n52gpjSY&index=1&list=RD1J7n52gpjSY
> 
> Had to raise the Rating for this chapter due to popular request. :) Hope you like the tone of the second chapter!

  
  
You’ve been in this shower lots of times — sometimes with Steve helping you, sometimes alone.  It’s a fine, modern shower, but today, it is magical. Today, it is a marble palace, and the steam of a long hot shower is the fog that drifts along the Borderlands Steve’s ma used to tell about in lovely old stories.  
  
The crazy arm lies silent, quiescent by your side.  The dreamy, steamy magic has put it to sleep, and you don’t want to move, you don’t want to stir it awake.  The tile is broken on the wall near the door, but that’s a small thing.  Steve is not broken — he is wet and warm and looks at you, so hungry — not like he will take, but like he’ll wear himself out trying if he’s not allowed give.  
  
You like the idea, of Steve giving, so you sit very still, and relax.  Sometimes not moving is holding still, but sometimes it is this — finding a point where movement isn’t needed, and sinking down into that point, like a stone into sand.  You sink into the sand of Steve’s generous gaze, you meet that gaze and open your mouth, and the word falls out again, a miracle, a taliisman:  
  
 _yes_.  
  
Steve’s knees fold and he gracefully kneels.    
  
“Bucky, Bucky, oh, Bucky,” he is murmuring.  He is afraid to touch you, but you can see how very much he wants to.  
  
“Yes,” you say again, and he actually moans, pressing the crown of his head against your shins.  He was washing your feet a minute ago, like a saint, and now you think he would kiss them. He is kissing your uninspiring shins, your plain, lumpy knees. His hands are tender and tame, low and sweet.  He is barely touching you, just the gentle press of his fingers, the flower of his lips, the soft wet fur of his hair.     
  
His clear sky eyes look up and catch yours.  “Color?” he queries.  
  
“Green,” you whisper, and you think your face might be smiling.    
  
He moves between your knees, slow and gradual, giving you every chance to push him away.   So far, you don’t need to.  His kisses are soothing against your skin, his posture so mild, his hands so kind.  You’ve seen him in flashes: stubborn, resolute, spitting mad.  But you’ve seen him like this too:   crazy in love, utterly devoted, focused on making you the luckiest man in the world.    
  
You’ve been through so much — your luck for so long was all the very worst — but now you’re here, with Steve at your feet.  You wouldn’t trade this moment with anyone, for anything.  This is all you want, all you’ll ever want.    
  
“Bucky,” he murmurs, his lips tickling your thigh. The red of his lips is in the front of your mind, a brilliant flower, as if you were a hummingbird and your life depended on your daring to dart in and sip.    
  
“Yes,” you breathe, rejoicing that the word is real, that its startling sorcery can sing out, changing reality.    
  
“Yes,” Steve echoes. He reaches out for your right hand, cradling it in his own, bringing it to his cheek. “If I do anything you don’t like, you push me away.”    
  
Steve glances at the metal hand and it wakes up.  You hold your breath as the arm stirs, its secret gears whispering their menacing little song.  The hand rises and brackets Steve’s face, gently caressing his other cheek and jaw.    
  
Steve closes his eyes, and presses his cheek into the metal hand.  You stare, transfixed by the bravery and selflessness of your steadfast friend and perfect lover, who has seen both your humanity and your villainy and somehow makes no distinctions.  
  
“I love you, Bucky,” Steve says.    
  
“Mmm,” you reply as best you can.  Love is every beat of your heart, every breath in your lungs — every flake of your silver armor.    
  
Steve leans in, closer and closer to his goal, giving you every chance to push him back — as if you would!    
  
A hot mouth — Steve’s beautiful red-lipped mouth — touches your cock.  A rough little tongue — Steve’s tongue — licks across the head.  It’s almost too much, Steve’s perfect mouth, his clever tongue, making your pleasure their mission.  
  
But it feels so good.    
  
“Yellow,” you moan, and Steve pauses, but he doesn’t pull away.    
  
“Good,” you say, “so good,” and that’s not a complaint, that doesn’t mean stop — you’re allowed to speak if it’s critical to the mission.  Steve wants you to feel good, and you’re letting him know his methods are effective.  
  
Good is such a pale word for something so transcendent.  Steve’s mouth, kissing, licking, sucking at you, changes the foundation of your existence.  Kneeling there, he worships you, an unworthy idol, but his devotion makes you holy, his ministrations are sacred and pure.    
  
The monstrous metal hand is finding its redemption, caressing Steve’s delicate jaw.  You remember when all of Steve was more minutely drawn, infinitely precious.  Even now he is breakable and you are the one who might do the breaking.  But you won’t. You have a _no_ now that every threat in Hydra’s arsenal is powerless to silence.  And a _yes_ even more world-changing.    
  
Steve takes you deeper. His tongue undulates against your length, sending pulses of ecstasy through your body, up your spine, into your brain.  Your hands do not shake — your sniper hands.  You swallow your moans in covert silence.  His fingers stroke your thighs, not too deeply, not too ticklish — he wants to know your color, how you feel.  
  
“Perfect,” you whisper, and he moans, the vibrations of his deep voice penetrating your dick.    
  
Steve slips one hand between your legs.  You flinch and his hands pulls away.   Kissing, he pulls his mouth free.    
  
“Color?” he says.  
  
“Green,” you say.  
  
“Don’t let me touch you if you aren’t ready,” Steve warns.  
  
“Green!” you repeat, more emphatic.  You want it, so much.  You want Steve and his quiet hands and his hot, lapping mouth.  
  
You slide between his lips as he sucks you back in.  You moan and the silver hand whirs, you pull it away and brace it against the marble seat, but your right hand settles in Steve’s short hair, and you pull him toward you in a thrust.    
  
He swallows, and you moan. He doesn’t pull away, he licks against you, and swallows, and bobs his head lightly, his tender hand rolling your balls and pressing up gently behind them.  His other hand disappears from your thigh, and he is touching himself, bringing himself off.  The thought of Steve’s hand on himself runs through you, sharp and piercing as a sting.    
  
“Ah!” you cry out. He moans deeper, rattling his voice into your pleasure, pulling off, and suckling back on, until your vision goes white.  Your back arches and Steve takes you all the way in.  You feel him rocking into his own hand.  _Together_ , you think, and your mind says  
  
 _love, I love him so much, I love him, oh Steve I love you_  
  
“Steve,” you groan, convulsing in pleasure, rocking into him, chasing the heat, and he drinks you down.  
  
Finally he pulls off of you as you slump.  He stands and shuts off the shower, drags the towels off the counter, massages your hair a little more dry and wraps you up in your robe, like you’re some kind of gift to him.  You’d like to be.    
  
He stands behind your left shoulder and watches you watch him in the mirror.    
  
He reaches up to touch your hair.  “You wanna cut it?” he asks.  
  
When you woke up this morning, you wanted that so bad, to be rid of the sloppiness, a corpse's hair that wouldn't stop growing, the reins they held you by when they rode you hard and put you away after a careless wipe.  So many things you wanted, you thought you’d never have.  
  
Now you see a little clearer in the foggy reflection: the man Steve has knelt to looks back, flushed with lovemaking, the man whose monstrous arm has cradled Steve’s beautiful face.  The hair hangs long and sleek behind your ears, where Steve tucked it, and your face is clear and open, grey eyes wide and lucid, brow untroubled.      
  
Maybe the hair is not such a big deal.  You shrug.  “Maybe.”  
  
Steve steps closer and his arms wrap around you, gentle and strong, as he watches your eyes in the mirror.  Your lips tremble into a smile, small but real: one more victory, priceless.    
  
  
   
  
   



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve buys a pair of barber scissors. Surprisingly, that works for Bucky.

Steve likes to make breakfast.    
  
No — Steve _loves_ to make breakfast: every morning, when he gets back from his run, it’s always something different.  He has a subscription delivery from an organic grocers and two different farms. The grocers connected him with a dairy, and he gets three gallons of whole milk, three quarts of yogurt, six dozen eggs, and big hunks of different kinds of cheese every week. Steve also gets his bread fresh every day from a local bakery — he comes home with whole wheat, sourdough, olive bread, cheese bread, muffins, rolls and granola, delicious hearty granola full of nuts and bits of dried fruit.  
  
So out of all this, Steve cooks breakfast every morning.  He tells you it’s his favorite meal of the day, and you’d be hard pressed to disagree.  After he leaves for his daily run at the crack of dawn each day, you drowse and try to forget your dreams and think about what the day might hold.  Then the smell of coffee draws you inexorably from the bedroom to the kitchen. Steve is all smiles as soon as he sees your face.  Sometimes he’s frying eggs over easy.  Sometimes he’s making French toast or pulling a strata or quiche from the oven.  Sometimes he’s cutting fresh fruit, or berries, ladled on top of mounds of greek yogurt in big bowls heaped full of granola.  
  
Lunch is an informal meal — sandwiches, soups Steve makes in big batches to eat through the week, leftovers from his fantastic suppers. You always love to help with supper. You’re not sure why, but chopping vegetables helps you feel better about the violent memories that are constantly resurfacing in your messed up head.  You can skillfully wield a blade and yet do no harm, and that feels good.    
  
One morning you shuffle to the kitchen and Steve presents a pile of food on a tortilla.  
  
“Breakfast burrito,” he grins.  You see some kind of sausage, avocado, eggs, cheese, Steve’s homemade salsa, something green, and you fold it up and eat it.    
  
For so many years they never let you eat — and yet,  you recovered.  You can eat what you want — as long as you can manage to somehow indicate what you want.  That’s still a problem, but it’s getting better. When it’s with Steve, you don’t mind practicing.    
  
Steve sits down and eats his own burrito.  The green pieces slither out.  
  
“What is that?” you ask.  
  
“Nopales,” he grins.  “Prickly pear cactus leaves, roasted and cleaned.”  
  
“Huh,” you say.  They have a slick texture like cooked green peppers and a bright green taste you don’t mind.    
  
You like to watch Steve eat.  He never ate enough as a kid; first off, there wasn’t enough money to afford all the food you wish you could have provided for Steve, and second, there was a lot he had trouble eating.  You remember potatoes, onions, cabbage, beans, a little bit of milk each week, oatmeal, and whatever you could scrounge from what grocers threw out.  You’re glad times have changed, and Steve can eat his fill, which is a lot.    
  
After Steve’s third burrito he slows down.  You don’t eat as much as Steve, but then, you’re not in fighting shape right now, and you prefer it that way.    
  
You carry the dishes to the sink, rinse them off and put them in the dishwasher.  You remember doing the washing up with cold water and lye soap.  Times do change, sometimes for the better.  
  
“Hey Bucky,” Steve says.  He has that little lilt in his voice that means he thinks he’ll need to convince you.  
  
“Hmm?” you say.    
  
“About that haircut,” he says.  His hands are on clear display, empty and flat on the table and he glances at you sideways.  
  
You can’t go to the barber.  You can’t.  The angry whine of the clippers.  The snip snap of scissors you can’t see.   The chair.  You shudder, and your teeth clamp down on remembered rubber.  _The chair._    
  
The arm grinds loud and all its flakes stand up like the hair on the back of a furious cat.  The metal fist is clenched. Your stomach gives a treacherous heave, the delicious burrito suddenly a rock.    
  
Steve waits you out, biting his lower lip, watching you anxiously and making no moves.  
  
You’ve been good with the shaving.  You use the disposables Steve got you for the most part. The Colgate soap is such a soothing smell; whipping up the lather with the brush takes you back into the past, puts you in a state where the shaving goes quickly and peacefully.   Steve uses the pearl-handled razor when you’re ready.  It feels so good, Steve pressed up against your thighs, strong and steady, his clear eyes and gentle hands making you smooth and clean. And the memory of that breakthrough, what came next, is so fucking perfect, that it almost brings you to tears.  A remembered rush of endorphins sweeps down your body, taking you back from the edge of panic.  You’re so much better now, lashing out so much less, why can’t you fucking _do this._    
  
“How,” you ask, forcing the word out between your clenched teeth.    
  
“I watched some youtubes,” Steve says.  You never let him cut your hair back in the old days, scrimping for the money to visit the barber when you could.   Now, you wish he’d had the practice.  
  
You shake your head violently, “clippers,” you say.    
  
“No,” Steve says calmly, understanding, “no clippers.  Absolutely.”  
  
You know he read the file, how they strapped you down, how they didn’t bother trying to knock you out when they cut into you.    
  
The villain arm clenches and mutters its murderous whispers at your distress.    
  
“I bought some barber scissors,” Steve says.  “Like Ma used to have.”  
  
Steve’s sainted mother always cut Steve’s hair herself.  You used to watch.  You knew the shape of Steve’s head like the back of your hand (your real hand), knew the way his cowlick fell, and how Steve liked it short on the sides but not too short, and longer on top.  You could cut Steve’s hair…  
  
“Green,” you murmur.    
  
Steve’s eyes light up. Little punk is so predictable.  Your stomach unclenches a little at the sight of his bright eyes as he goes to fetch the scissors.    
  
“Dragging me into one more Rogers scheme, foolproof like always, huh,” you murmur, and Steve laughs, and the arm quivers again as it stages back.    
  
Steve knows how to carry the scissors, hand wrapped tight around the blade so the point is not towards you.  The arm lies still for the moment.  
  
Steve sets the scissors on the table to your right and pushes them toward you, handles first, toward your real hand.  You’re half afraid the arm might make a grab but your right hand closes around the scissors and the villain makes no move.    
  
You always admired Sarah Rogers’s barber scissors, the quiet little snips and the gold hair scattering on the oilcloth floor while Stevie sat on a kitchen chair on top of the Rogerses’ thickest books — Webster’s Dictionary and both volumes of the Concise Household Encyclopedia. It’s the sweetest picture, bathed in golden sunlight, Stevie holding still with that little scowl of concentration, Sarah smiling down at her boy, and you at the table, scuffing your feet back and forth, waiting for your pal to be released.    
  
These scissors are exactly the same — as though the art of barbering had been perfected in 1917 and no real advances had been made in a hundred years.  You fit your fingers into the circular handles. Snip, snip — a tiny, pleasant sound, like sharpening a knife.    
  
“You want me to try?” Steve asks.  
  
“Mmhm,” you say, and you slip the scissors off your fingers and back toward Steve.  
  
You haven’t showered yet today.  Steve says it’s best if your hair is clean and wet for the cut, so the two of you take your sweet time in the shower.  Steve washes your hair, and your back, and all over, and then you’re pressed together, jacking off together in Steve’s big hands, and you love him, god, you can’t breathe sometimes for how much you love him.  
  
You’re soft and warm and pliant as he puts you in your robe and puts a towel around your neck and leans you up against the sink.    
  
“First I have to cut ‘the perimeter,’” he says, quoting from the youtube instructions.    
  
He shows you the scissors and makes a little snipping noise.  It’s almost like music, the way he snip-snip, snip-snips. The arm sleeps, quiet.    
  
“Okay?” he asks.  
  
“Green,” you say, and you feel his tender fingers at your nape.  A pleasant shiver runs down your spine as he cards his fingers into the length, lifts it up, and makes the first cut.    
  
The scissors are so sharp, you almost can’t feel it.  Your hair has always been heavy and thick; it takes Steve several cuts to make it across the back.  With the length cut away you feel so much lighter.  You feel Steve’s lips press against your naked nape, and every nerve in your body sings.    
  
“Green,” you say, before he asks.  He moves to the side, his warm, strong hand protecting your ear, muffling the sound of the snipping, and his brilliant blue eyes constantly glance into yours in the mirror, making sure you’re okay as he shapes the sideburn and cuts out around the ear, combing and snipping, the music of the scissors lulling your arm as it sleeps.    
  
He finishes around both ears, softly kissing and nuzzling your newly revealed skin as he goes.    
  
“I can use the razor to put in the layers, if you want,” Steve says.  You do.  You love that razor.  It belonged to Steve’s dad, the father he’d never known.  You can only imagine the kind of man he must have been, if anything runs in families, and if Sarah Rogers had tied her life to his, he must’ve been a stand-up sort of guy.   Steve had treasured the razor, and the two of you had always shared it, honing and stropping it and storing it wrapped up dry among the linens like an heirloom, which it was.  Steve had made noise about selling it a dozen times, but you always found a way.  And here it is, still, returned from the effects stored at the Smithsonian when Steve asked for it back.    
  
The razor pulls a little, but you don’t mind, your scalp is as much in love with Steve as the rest of you, and when he pulls your hair it’s with a smooth, even pull that doesn’t jerk or sting, it's a pressure in the scalp that soothes you and makes you relax even more. Carding with his fingers, lifting your hair in small sections, he feathers in the layers around the sides, across the back, and you’re in a haze, feeling him close, an animal closeness that puts all your hackles down, even the silver ones.    
  
He combs the top this way and that, fluffs and cuts, getting the length just right. You had no idea Steve would be so talented a barber, but maybe you should have guessed: the punk excels at everything he puts his hand to, and cutting hair is not just artistry, it’s also taking care of you, which means the world to Stevie these days.    
  
He’s finished before you know it.    
  
“Hey, there, Bucky,” he smiles at your reflection.  And there you are, smooth and well-coiffed, hollow and tired around the eyes, but there is a happy smile on your lips, and Stevie is smiling behind your shoulder, so you count your blessings.  
  
“I love you, Steve,” slips out, and his eyes fill with tears.  You haven’t managed it till this minute, you meant to say _thanks_ and the deepest truth slipped out while the monster was asleep.  
  
“Oh, Bucky, I love you too,” he says, arms slipping around you, owning you, cherishing you, kissing the vulnerable side of your neck where the hair had hidden. “So, so much.”  
  
You’ve spent a lot of time in the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom, all the most domestic of rooms, taking back your life and making it your own again.  For so long you were dead, a corpse on ice, sent out to walk and spread your death among the living, and now you are warm again, alive again, loving Steve with every heartbeat, every step, even through the nightmares and the panic and sometimes the rage.    
  
He feeds you and bathes you and dresses you and you bless every last lucky star that finally sparkled again from behind heavy gray clouds.  You will get better, you will be the man Steve loves, the one you can almost see right there in the mirror. Every time you held onto him while the priest walked out after reading last rites, you never gave up on him, and you owe it to him not to give up now, on you.  
  
You get better. You savor every smile on Steve’s perfect face. His smiles come more and more often, free and easy, and every single one is a precious victory.    
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for all your sweet comments! They make a huge difference. :D


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